Page 17 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

I barely slept. I should have forced myself to rest, considering today’s the day I escape this godforsaken place (providing Sean comes through for me) but a mixture of excitement, abject terror, and having no idea what time sunrise is had me awake most of the night.

My injuries are healing but it’s slow. There’s a real chance today will involve running, and even when I don’t have parts of my body stitched together, running is not my jam. But I’ll do literally anything to get away from Patrick Mahoney, even break a sweat or bleed.

I smile at myself in the bathroom mirror, the weight of the last few days feeling easier to bear because the light at the end of the tunnel is getting closer.

Another thrum of hope, of eagerness, laced with a jolt of icy vengeance shoots through my body like a hit of adrenaline.

As soon as Sean gets me out of this place and Cathal is safely with me far away from here, I will make Patrick Mahoney, and his lapdog brothers, rue the day they ever laid eyes on me.

He’s going to wish he’d shot me as soon as I opened the door to leave my family home.

A wave of grief threatens to tug me under, so I grab the edge of the sink and focus on some deep and cleansing breaths. It feels longer than a few days since I woke up in the hospital an orphan.

I’m supposed to be strong, to take it in my stride. It’s part of the role of being part of a prominent mafia family. But I’m not part of this life, not the way my brothers were.

I’m not logical like they’d have been if it was me who got killed and not them.

I can’t just flick a switch and say “it was the cost of doing business,” even if Patrick was within his rights to slaughter my whole bloodline for what they did to the O’Sullivans.

It wasn’t Patrick who broke the truce my Da told me about by agreeing to marry Niamh O’Sullivan. It was Da.

An eye for an eye is an antiquated phrase, but it’s always been a core tenet of our life. The O’Sullivans would take one of Da’s soldiers, and he’d take two of theirs. The Mahoneys would raid one of the O’Sullivan’s shipments, so they’d do the same back. It’s the circle of mafia life.

Which is all well and good in abstracts and theory, but right now? It’s not abstract or theory. It’s real, it’s raw. It’s agonizing. I rub my chest. I miss my family and want vengeance for what he did to them, and to me, by killing them.

I don’t have time to dwell, to let the ache in my chest fester and consume me. I need to escape, then I’ll let myself feel every single emotion simmering under my skin.

My hands shake as I tug my trainers on, but at least Patrick had warmer clothes delivered yesterday.

There are a couple of jumpers, a bobble hat, and a puffy jacket.

They’re not what I would have chosen for myself, but as long as they keep me warm on my early morning walk to the orchard, I won’t complain.

Bundled up in all my layers, I head downstairs to meet my babysitter.

Patrick might’ve said I could go outside, but he refused to relent on me having a shadow.

He’s such a control freak, though having heard him on the phone to some Irish American-sounding man the two nights ago, I now understand why.

I was coming back inside from a walk out in the garden when I heard voices.

I already knew that Patrick wasn’t keeping me alive to marry me out of the goodness of the swinging breeze block in his chest. But getting confirmation that he needs a wife, and right now his only option is me, brought with it a deep sense of satisfaction.

It felt like the balance of power was starting to shift in my direction.

Part of me wishes I could split myself in two: one version here to see the utter distress on his pretty face when he discovers I’m gone and the other hightailing it out as fast as my feet will carry me.

I can’t fight the smile tugging at my lips.

It’d be glorious. Wonder what he’ll do when he loses his second bride-to-be in only a week?

Right. It’s time to head to the orchard.

The darkness outside my bedroom window is growing lighter by the minute.

Soon the sun will tease at the edges of the horizon, rising on the day of my freedom.

My shoulders and jaw are relaxed, and for the first time in days, I don’t have a throbbing headache or anxiety compressing my chest.

I don’t know how Sean will get to me when I have a six-foot-tall human wall escorting me around the grounds of Mahoney Manor, but my job is to follow his instructions. Beyond that, it’s on him until he clues me into the plan.

Grinning at myself, I pull my new coat onto my body, bouncing on the balls of my feet, excess energy surging through my veins at the prospect of getting out from under that arsehole’s thumb.

Am I more excited about escaping or getting one over on Patrick Mahoney?

Who knows? Maybe it’s both equally. Maybe he’s right and I’m not so useless after all.

I’m walking on air as I head down the staircase with a book clutched against my chest, meet my prison guard, and head out into the brisk morning air. He doesn’t say a word to me, doesn’t even grunt. He looks at me like I’m a gnat, an annoyance, and my mere presence in his life is an imposition.

Don’t worry, bud, the feeling is mutual.

I don’t want to make it obvious that I need to get to the orchard, so I start with the closer, more familiar paths of the flower garden.

The air smells sweeter here, despite most of the flowers not being in bloom.

They say decomposition brings a sweet tang with it.

Are there bodies buried in the flower beds?

A shudder slivers down my spine at the thought. Will Cormac be joining the worms under the blooms?

As the darkness blends into morning, a thick mist hangs low on the cool air. Soggy leaves squelch underfoot, the only sound on my otherwise deafeningly silent walk with a disgruntled stranger.

“What’s your name?”

McMountain ignores my question. Ugh. This is going to be a looooong morning walk.

Da would be disappointed with my lack of something to make conversation about other than the first fucking book I grabbed off the shelf.

If he won’t answer what his name is, what chance do I have of him talking about literature?

For most of my life, I was grateful to be on the fringes of the family business. My lack of gumption is largely due to my inexperience, which no one in my family sought to correct. But for just one minute, I’d love to know what the fuck to do in any given situation I find myself in.

“Have you worked for Patrick for long?” I risk a sideways glance at my chaperone, trying again to get him to engage in idle chat. He stares back at me with a blank expression on his face. Maybe I could offer to make it worth his while if he helps Sean to get me the hell out of here.

Silence is my only answer. Was he instructed not to talk to me? I wouldn’t put it past Patrick to isolate me from everyone, drive me up the walls with silence… The man is trying to break me.

Well, I refuse to be broken.

“Do you have any pets?” My voice hangs heavy in the crisp morning air, another question going unanswered.

Resigned to not getting any chitchat out of the bouncer, I jam my hands in my pockets and keep walking.

As we approach the edges of the orchard, the silent giant accompanying me on my morning stroll yawns and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. While he lights up, I let myself scan the space a little more purposefully for something, anything out of place.

The temptation to bum one of the bodyguard’s smokes and somehow use it as a weapon makes my fingers twitch, but I need to stay patient and trust in my people.

My people. I still have people. The relief in my body is tangible that Da’s people really are mine.

A billowing plume of smoke drifts toward me on the heavy morning air, sending me into a coughing fit. The beefcake smirks as I waved away the pungent air and move away from him.

He points his cigarette at me. “Stay in my line of sight.”

I hold my hands up. “I’ll just be over here.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “Where there’s no cancer stick in my oxygen.”

He glowers at me but otherwise stays silent as he takes up a position with his back against an apple tree. I don’t doubt if I step even a foot over whatever imaginary boundary he’s set for me, he’ll drag me back inside by my ponytail, or worse, so I need to stay on the right side of him.

No amount of searching high or low brings Sean into view. Where is he? My fingers and toes are starting to get chilly, the early spring sun doing little other than dancing off the leaves.

It’s so peaceful out here. If this place was really where I had to spend the rest of my days, I could see myself enjoying many a morning in the orchard.

It’s too early in the season for the fruit trees to bloom, but there’s a patch of wild rhubarb a few feet away that my growling stomach urges me to pick.

It’s unyielding, and if I tug much harder, my stitches will reopen. Patrick won’t like that at all. And I don’t think I can cope with another round of him fixing me up, or his surly bedside manner.

There’s no point in asking my companion for an assist. He’s glaring at me like he’d sooner shove my face into a massive tree trunk than help me pick rhubarb. I strain my ears as I give it another tug.

When a stalk pops free, I wipe it on my shirt and take a bite.

I prefer to dip it in a bowl of sugar, but I’m hungry, and it’s what I’ve got.

Other than my crunching of the tart vegetable, there’s not another sound.

No one else is out here, just me and my minder.

The bitter taste of disappointment fills my mouth as I sigh. Maybe tomorrow.

My limbs are heavy as I turn back toward the house. My stomach dips. It takes my brain a second or two to catch up to what my eyes are seeing. What… what the hell is that?

It looks like a mannequin’s head on a stick right in our path back to Patrick’s house.

The same path we walked down to get here.

It wasn’t there on our way here, which means someone’s done it while I was hanging about in the cold waiting for Sean to appear.

That someone’s got to be Patrick. He’s fucking with me.

Well two can play at that; his childish games have nothing on the shit my siblings pulled on me growing up, or even Eabha who’s a terrible prankster.

I’ll take a leaf out of her book and show him what a real prank looks like.

As I get closer, a sucker punch to the gut almost takes my legs out from beneath me. Oh, God… Jesus Christ. It’s… it’s Sean’s dismembered head.

My half-eaten stalk of rhubarb falls from my hand onto a bed of soft leaves. His face is contorted in agony, but it’s undeniably him.

I stare at it, my jaw hanging open, my brain trying to rationalize what my eyes are telling me. When I force myself to look away, to take in a deep breath, movement in the upstairs window of the house grabs my attention.

Patrick stands watching me, arms folded, his face an impassive, unreadable mask, and without a single word, his message has been delivered loud and clear. He knew about the plan to get me out, and instead of simply telling me, he let it continue as planned to teach me a lesson.

Who ratted Sean out? Some overeager member of staff keen to get in Patrick’s good graces? Or did one of my own betray Sean and his team?

My legs shake as I approach the wooden spike with Sean’s head on it. Having to walk past it to get back into the house is no accident, it’s my punishment, driving home the fact that Patrick owns me.

As I drag myself back inside, the crippling pressure on my chest makes it hard to breathe. My rescue attempt was over before it even had a chance to get off the ground. No matter how smart I think I am, or who I think may come for me, Patrick is always a step or two ahead.

The house always wins.

Patrick always wins.

There was never a way for me to get away from him. From the moment I woke up in the hospital, he’s had the upper hand. He’s toying with me, like a mouse caught in a trap, still alive, still frantically scrambling, but it’s just a matter of time until I die.

As I climb the staircase, trudging back toward my room, Patrick’s low voice meets my ears. “You should have listened to me, mo mhuirnín . Now you’ve cost more lives for nothing.”

Lives, plural. Who else met an untimely end with Sean because they were here to help get me out?

My stomach lurches, threatening to bring the rhubarb back up.

I ignore him, reaching for the handle. I need away from this man before I do something stupid.

I have Cathal to think about. I can’t afford to have this animal behead me like he did with Sean.

“Sorcha?”

I pause, if for no other reason than it’s unusual for him to say my name. I don’t look back toward him; I can’t bear to look at the smug superiority waiting for me in those menacing blue eyes.

“Our wedding is scheduled for a week on Saturday.”

So soon.

Any remaining fight leaves my body on a heavy breath as I step into the room where I’ll live out the rest of my days. My elation from only an hour ago is a distant memory, evaporated along with the morning mist.

Resignation seeps into every muscle in my body. There really is nothing left for me to do but marry the monster who killed most of my family and hope it’s enough to save my brother.